


let's go back to our cocoon

by lucyswriting



Series: bellamy & clarke's cocoon [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Beta Read, Pining, Sleepy Cuddles, Touching, kind of forehead touching i guess?, post 4x03 but like by 5 min, really i am just gonna pretend this happened and let myself live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 00:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9854966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucyswriting/pseuds/lucyswriting
Summary: Post 4x03. Bellamy, trying to get back to sleep, wakes to Clarke entering his room. Pt 1 of 2.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "cocoon" by milky chance

“Bellamy!”

He stirs at the sound of his name, eyes opening into darkness. This is usually how one of his nightmares starts: Clarke running, calling his name—her voice filtered through the blackness as if nightfall could be a physical place that blocks them in. He can’t get to her, can’t see her. She just keeps calling his name, the sound of her voice made tinny as it ricochets off walls that keep her in and keep him out. These walls are impossible to find, even running straight at them with his hands stretched out, as if breaking a bone is the least of his problems.

But this is no nightmare because this time, a door opens. The rectangular plane shifts, becoming thinner and thinner as light begins to burst from the hole it leaves behind. Bellamy, raising his head, props himself up on his elbows and squints. 

“Bellamy?”

The soft voice emanates from a shadowed figure that fills the doorway. Clarke. Bellamy can’t help the tug he feels at the corner of his mouth, the smile forming without meaning to.

“Yeah, I’m here,” He grunts sleepily. Leaning over the edge of the cot, Bellamy stretches an arm across his body to reach the nearest lamp, tapping it on. The room exposes itself: Bellamy Blake in bed, fully clothed, with an AK at his feet, walls plastered with maps, stacks of books strewn about, holster belt hooked on the bed post. It’s both him and not him—a version of himself cultivated in dire straits, the break-glass-in-case-of-emergency self that he could have never predicted. At least, he thought, the books made the cut.

Across the room, haloed in light and gripping the doorframe, is Clarke Griffin. Blonde hair, short, stocky for a girl, tremendous breasts and a heck of a sucker punch: a girl who was possibly the final piece of the puzzle for unlocking this version of Bellamy, even if he hadn’t quite put it together himself yet. Usually, when she came around, his thoughts were immediately pushed to anything but her and himself. It wasn’t as if she only looked for him when there was an emergency—it was just that they were almost always in danger. 

He hears his name drop quietly from her lips before she moves toward him. Bellamy barely has enough time to register that her blue eyes have gone glossy with tears before she is at his side. Raising himself a little higher, he opens his mouth to ask what is wrong, but doesn’t manage to get the words out before she abruptly sits and throws herself against him, arms sliding around his neck. Clarke’s tear-stained cheek presses warm and sticky against his neck. Snaking an arm around her reflexively, his bicep taught against her spine, Bellamy simply allows himself to hold Clarke for a moment, basking her in warmth before its complicated by something else. The tips of his forefinger and thumb fiddle with ends of her blonde hair. He takes a deep breath.

“Clarke, what is it?” The words come out soft, as if he’s scared of shattering whatever this is. Bellamy is worried, of course, but he also knows the value of remaining calm and steady in moments of fear, anxiety. So he waits, his arm loosening, his fingers slipping down Clarke’s back until they rest at the base of her spine.

Clarke stays still for another minute before finally pulling back. She lets her arms slip from around Bellamy’s neck until she’s got both hands on his shoulders. She uses one to quickly wipe at her eyes before returning it to its place, watching as the wetness darkens the brown cotton of the shirt covering Bellamy’s skin. When she finally raises her gaze to his, his head is quirked to the side, his coal eyes searching. Clarke sniffles, smiling a little. She gives his shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s not…it’s good news, Bellamy,” She says, and it’s only then that she sees the rumple in his crown of curls, the dark circles overtaking the freckles between his eyes. The small smile on her lips turns to a sheepish grin—she’d woken him up. She should have known better: less than an hour before, Bellamy had woken briefly from a nap to save her life yet again—this time, from herself of course—before telling her to get some sleep of her own. And, of course, Clarke hadn’t. She’d gone right to Med Bay, found out about Luna and the Nightbloods as a cure, and then rushed to find Bellamy—who, brilliantly, had gone back to sleep. “It looks like Luna’s blood…something about the Nightbloods…we’re not sure yet but,” Her voice is tentative, her eyes growing wide as she gets more earnest, more hopeful. “It might be able to help us survive the radiation. We might be able to save everyone.”

Bellamy doesn’t so much as blink. “You woke me up for that?” He asks, voice as gruff as ever even though it’s clear he’s suppressing a smirk. Clarke scoffs, but an undeniable amusement overtakes her features as she gives Bellamy a shove. Bellamy falls back onto the bed with ease, tucking his arms behind his head and letting his eyes drift closed. “I’m just kidding, obviously,” He says, his voice light before fading into a yawn. He tilts his chin up, pressing his skull back against his forearms, trying to get comfortable. “But I feel like good news can just wait until morning. In case, you know, we figure out its not good news after all. That’s happened before.” 

Clarke, dropping her hands to her lap, looks at him. Bellamy Blake. A halo of black curls, a golden face dotted with too many freckles to count. The chiseled jaw, the scar above his lip, the dimple in his chin—all these little parts of him, still somehow unfazed by his exhaustion. Her look softens as she watches his chest rise and fall. She glances away, finally, and fixes her gaze on her hands. “That’s true. I’m sorry. I was just…excited is all,” Clarke heaves a sigh. “After making that list, I just couldn’t believe—”

“Clarke,” Bellamy cuts her off, and when she looks back at him, his eyes are hard on her. “I know. But we made the right call then, and we’ll do the same thing tomorrow,” he adds, rolling onto his side. Pulling his knees up a little, the tops of his thighs come to rest against her hip. Clarke has to stop herself from reaching for his ribs, but it doesn’t matter because Bellamy Blake doesn’t care and he places one of his hands over both of hers. Clarke purses her lips at the weight of it, the rough skin of his palm against the soft skin at the backs of her hands. She looks at him, and he’s giving her a painfully soft but tired smile. “But can we figure it out later?”

Clarke sighs, balling her hands into fists. She glances back down at her lap, taking comfort at the sight of his hand over hers. “Yeah,” She agrees after a moment. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“It’s alright, princess,” Bellamy murmurs, and when Clarke shifts her gaze to his face again, his eyes are closed. She begins to move away, pulling her hands out from beneath his, but his fingers pressing into hers give her pause. “You need to get some sleep too,” he grumbles, a yawn punctuating the statement. In her head, Clarke envisions her own crumpled cot, the empty room waiting for her on the other side of camp. It’s a long walk to a not-so-comfortable destination. Plus, Med Bay is on the way, and so is Raven’s rationing station, so there are probably things she could do on the way back. 

But she’s not going to argue with Bellamy and wake him up again, so she just says, “I will Bellamy, don’t worry.”

Bellamy blinks his eyes open to look up at Clarke as she begins to pull away again. Her blonde hair is shielding her face, but he can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s distracted, probably thinking ahead to all the things she can do besides sleep. Bellamy knew that tone because it was one that he often used. And Clarke used to be the honest one.

“Clarke,” says Bellamy, and when she turns to look at him she is smiling so tenderly that it almost wakes up every nerve in his body. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her look so unguarded, so unconcerned. He wants to take a moment to revel in that, but he’s also very tired. He makes a mental note to pray that the Nightbloods thing works so he can witness this look more often. Then, he exhales, scooting his body back toward the wall. “Why don’t you stay here for a bit,” he offers, patting the newly formed space between them. “That way you don’t have to go all the way across camp, and I don’t have to worry about you not sleeping.”

When Bellamy looks at her again, Clarke’s lips are parted, her eyes wide. Bellamy’s face warms, but he keeps his brow furrowed, his gaze sure. This isn’t weird. He pats the bed again, more firmly this time. “Just lay down,” he says, swallowing a growing lump in his throat as he adds, “If it’s still too hard to sleep you can…you can leave.” He hopes that this somehow communicates that he understands that she is always free, regardless of what he wants. But, right now, he does want her, like this—and he hopes she understands that too.

Clarke nods slowly. Without a word, she begins to remove her boots, leaning down to untie them carefully and set them beneath the cot. Bellamy waits with baited breath. She looks at him once more—the faintest trace of a smile on her lips—and then gently lowers herself into the space beside him.

There is no awkward fumbling or asking of questions: she fits easily against him, her shoulders pressing into his chest, spine against his stomach, ass against his hips. Bellamy, for a second, isn’t sure what to do with his hands: one arm tucked under his head, the other awkwardly at his side. Clarke makes the decision for him: reaching over to grab his free arm, draw it across her waist. She twins her fingers in his against her stomach, giving his hand a affirming squeeze. The two of them relax into this immediately even though they have never done it before; the closeness feels that natural. They fit together perfectly.

“Thanks Bellamy,” mutters Clarke, her eyes closing easier than they have in a long time.

Bellamy, who can’t see her face and doesn’t know just how much she hasn’t been sleeping, simply shakes his head, his nose parting the hair at the back of her neck until he’s got almost enough space to kiss the skin there. Instead, he exhales, pressing his arm into her waist until she’s drawn a bit closer to him. “Thank me by getting some rest, princess,” he murmurs in reply. There is another bundle of words that jump into his mind for a moment—three to be exact; a confession, a careful utterance that Bellamy knows holds a lot of weight—but he keeps them to himself. Maybe, he thinks, when the world isn’t ending; maybe then.

“Goodnight,” Clarke replies, breaking into Bellamy’s thoughts. He smiles as she yawns, her body curling tighter, pressing harder into his. His heart beats a little faster at the increased contact. He inhales, taking in the scent of her: the stinging sterile smell of Med Bay, sweat and dirt, and then, too, something that is just Clarke—a sweet, earthy scent that follows her around, something that always buzzes around Bellamy’s brain sometime after she’s gone. He smiles a little at the memories it’s associated with: the reunions, the partings. And now, too, this.

The three little words jump to the front of his mind again. This time, licking his lips and pressing his face a bit closer to the base of her skull—his nose actually touching the skin, just a bit—he dares to mouth the words. I love you. No sound; just the feel of it in his mouth. And that, too, feels right. Right, definitely—but not right now.

Sighing but maintaining an easy smirk, Bellamy adjusts his arm against her, giving Clarke’s hand a light squeeze. With the way her shoulders rise and fall against his chest, he knows she’s already asleep. This doesn’t make him braver, but it also doesn’t make him feel like he can get away with saying nothing. So he settles on something easy, something it feels good to say no matter what, because it’s new, too, but also as old as their story is. Another way to say I love you, perhaps.

“Goodnight Clarke,” Bellamy whispers before his eyes shut once more. In sleep, his head tilts forward oh so slightly, and soon his forehead presses against the top of her neck, curls of his hair catching in strands of hers. Neither of them dream, but neither of them have nightmares, and for tonight, that is good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! please let me know if you'd like to see more added to this (waking & kissing??) or if you'd like to see more from me in general. kudos are appreciated but comments really make me smile.


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